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Février (Spy x Scout's Mom) (5)

1 .

Okay, Millia. This one's for you. Maybe it's not quite what you had in mind, but...

Here's some Valentine's Day fluff from WWII between the Spy and Scout's Mom.


The small white home was nestled safe and warm with its neighbors, soft glow from streetlamps illuminating the sidewalks. The little neighborhood was covered in a light powdering of fresh snow. Fluffy bits fell even now from light-polluted skies. The snowflakes came to rest on his shoulders, his disguise glimmering under their gentle touch. If they did not reveal him, the faint red trail he left in his wake did. He felt so much out of place here, a black and dirty cancer on this pristine, clean street. The twenties might have taken a romantic like him in, perhaps even the desperate thirties. The forties had no use for a man like him, for one who would lift a gun at petty criminals and run from the greatest foes. Still, he had no other place to go.

The man knew he would not be confronted in this house. He’d visited it on other occasions, although it had been on friendlier terms. Pain clutched his heart, worse than the throbbing wound in his side. A gold star in the window said it all. There was no dog to ward off the fox tonight. He ascended the stairs on the small porch, grimacing at the flag. Perhaps he would have felt a sting of cowardice, had he not already been preoccupied. Those poor kids. Their poor mother.

Slipping a metal pin into the door’s keyholes, the man popped the door open. He placed his jacket on the coat rack to his left, shaking snow and blood onto the porch. He fiddled with his wrist watch. With one last tremble, he became visible to the world. The kids would not remember him, most likely. Their mother would. It would do him no good if he operated as a ghost, even if he was robbing them. He turned once to lock the door behind him. No need to let other criminals in. He wiped his shoes three times a piece on the front entry’s rug, then stepped into the den.

Now, where was that bathroom? Ah, yes. By the kitchen. The man strode past a fatigued couch, quiet as he passed the stairwell. He pressed his hand into his wound, hoping he wasn’t bleeding too much onto the hardwood floors. He’d have to clean before he left. He stepped into the bathroom, flicking the lights on. A tired man stared at him from the medicine cabinet’s mirror, eyes black and bruised. His hair was disheveled, his fixative long since effective. He snorted once, unamused with the nose on his face. His father had done him a disservice by giving him such a nose. He wished he could hide it.

The man pulled the medicine cabinet’s door back. There were a few things he could use. Rubbing alcohol. Bandage tape. Cotton swabs. The man pulled each of these things out, careful not to drop them. Tiny ears could always hear every little thing. No wonder they found Père Noël so easily. The man untucked his dress shirt, clicking his tongue in disappointment. It wasn’t a fatal cut, but it needed to be stitched shut. Perhaps she would have some needles in the basket out in the den. It would take some effort on his part to keep quiet, but that wasn’t a hard task for a snoop like him.

It was as he shut the cabinet’s door that he found out he had already failed this. A shotgun was aimed at his ribs, the barrels cut clean off. Its wielder most likely didn’t do that. Perhaps Dave had. At any rate, he was caught. There was no point in lying. She’d found him, after all. He raised his hands, then turned around slowly. A small tick in his eyebrows revealed his surprise. He’d almost forgotten how small and well groomed she was. Even after just slipping out of bed, her hair was neat, black and smooth. Ah, yes. He remembered why he’d fell in love with her. Assertive and beautiful, even when pointing a twelve-gauge at him.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

“You’re pregnant,” he said.

The small woman lowered her weapon. Well, perhaps she wasn’t so small in one way. She waved the muzzle of the gun at the man’s wound. “Come with me. We might as well take care ‘a dat.”

“Merci beaucoup,” the man replied. He grabbed his pilfered supplies, then followed the little woman into the living room. She struggled to pick up the sewing basket near her rocker. With a gun in one hand and a child on her hips, it was hard for her to maneuver. The man picked it up for her. She looked like she wanted to slap him, but the expression faded into a tiny smile. He was surprised. He never knew an American woman who could take help as graciously as she did.

She led him into the kitchen. She pulled out a chair, then sat down. He did likewise, positioning himself to let her get the best look at his injury. She whistled low, then pinned his shirt up. Perhaps it would be better for a surgeon to do this, but she had her speculations on why the man hadn’t gone to a hospital. She picked up thread from the bathroom supplies, a needle from her sewing basket. She ran the needle under hot water, sanitizing it some.

“Need some aspirin?” she asked.

The man shook his head. “I’ll have taken enough from you tonight, I fear.”

She laughed once, a suppressed little snort that came out of her nose. Mon dieu, she had an adorable nose. “Dere’s no need ta show off ‘round me, Monsieur. If yer hurtin’, say so.”

The man nodded. “I will.”

The small woman set to work. She was slow, gentle with her pricks. It wasn’t hard to sit through her work. He’d experienced much worse in his occupation. He spent a few moments silent, alternating his attention between the strange cat clock on the wall and the woman at his side. Both were hard to focus on. The cat had strange eyes, a goofy smile. The woman was—and her growing baby—well, he could ask, but perhaps he was better off not knowing. He had seen the badge of her family’s suffering in the window. It was best not to antagonize her.

“So,” the little woman asked, “What was it dis time?”

The man replied lowly, “Mafioso.”

The woman clicked her tongue. “Monsieur, I thought you knew better.”

“When your people pay me for my language and my art, zen I will work with zem instead. For now, unfortunately, ze detectives need my brain and my hands to go where zer guns cannot.” The man sighed, trying not to move too much in the kitchen chair.

The woman smiled. “Hope ya got th’ bastards.”

The man returned her grin. “Mais oui. Alzough, perhaps it would be best if I moved on. It would not take long to find me, even in a city such as zis.”

“Runnin’ again, Monsieur?” The woman sighed, shaking her head. “Yer givin’ yer country a bad name. Keep dat up, and soon th’ land of lovers will be called th’ land of cowards.”

“Better zan ze land of tyrants or brutes, I suppose,” the man shrugged. He hissed once. The pull of the needle through his skin had caught him off guard that time. The woman let out a soft sigh, then fetched the man a glass of water and two white pills. She could never let an argument go.

The man let his eyes drift towards her stomach. “Congratulations are in order. When are you—”

“Mid April.” Despite the tiredness in her eyes, she looked genuinely happy. A shade of the woman he’d wooed. “If he ‘n dat German bastard share a birthday, I’m gonna enlist ta finish th’ son of a bitch off myself.”

“A boy? So certain?” the man asked.

The little lady nodded. “It’s always boys fer me. Gave up wantin’ a little girl years ago.”

The man chuckled. “Perhaps you will have to give him a gun too, non? He could assist ven you go after zat foul German.”

There was an awkward pause from the small woman. She brushed a lock of hair back, then nodded. “I suppose.”

Oh, no. He knew that look. It was best to divert her for some time. He had his suspicions that something like that had—well, at any rate. He hadn’t come to her home to ruin her evening and make her cry. “Your other boys?”

“The first twins ‘r fine. Just entered th’ second grade. Junior’s doin’ his best in th’ first grade, but he doesn’t like his teacher none. The second set’s just about ready fer kindergarten. Might send ‘em ta different schools. They fight like th’ dickens.” That warm smile was back. There was nothing like a proud mama beaming over her babies. “My little black sheep’s havin’ a bit of a rough time with other kids, but he’s a fighter. He’ll pull through. My youngest probably could already go ta school, but he’s such a little guy. Don’t think it’s right ta send him ta preschool at three, do you?”

The man shrugged. “To each zer own. I am no man to take advice from.” He smirked, then shook his head. “I don’t know how you can do it, ma petite.”

“I just have ta. Ain’t no other way around it.” The small woman began tying up the last of her threads. “My ma’s usually around ta help me when they’re under foot. There’s some child support ta help us eat. And…”She paused, unable to finish her sentence.

The man knew what she meant to say. Dave should have been there for her. Dave could love seven kids. Hell, he could love twenty. He loved them, his wife, his country. He was such a gentle giant, such a towering figure. Dave could give a broken lady a ring, a home, a stable life, a warm bed. He should have been the world to the little woman. To know what he’d been reduced to—just a little golden star in a window—well, it was enough to crush the Frenchman’s heart. He had been jealous of such a man, spiteful enough to steal his wife from time to time. Even wolves could admire rams.

The man at the table bowed his head, feeling shadows from the window weighing on his shoulders. The woman lowered hers as well, soft hair gracing his scalp as they laid their heads against each others. There were soft sniffles from the woman, choked sobs that she locked in her heart. He reached his arms around her, moving closer, pressing her rounded belly into his fixed side. Warm tears rolled down his shoulder, landing next to spilled blood on the kitchen floor.

“Dave said dat France was beautiful,” the woman sobbed.

A slow frown crossed the man’s face. “Zat she is. Even now.”

The woman began babbling into his shoulder. “Dey called it a Thunderbolt, you know. What he flew. Damn lie. Thing didn’t move fast enough.” She trembled once, then sniffled. “Couldn’t tell da kids, ya know. Dey know, but I couldn’t—”

“Zey finally had a good papa, didn’t zey?” the Frenchman asked. He nuzzled the woman on his shoulder, mopping up her tears with his cheek.

A low growl threatened to escape the small woman, but she buried it away. “He died protectin’ yer lady, ya know. N-not sayin’ it shoulda been you, but ya should…if ya loved France so much, ya should have…”

The man nodded slowly, “I know.”

“Don’t want ya ta go back, though,” the woman wept.

“Zen I will not. Not until you say so,” the man whispered.

“I don’t know what ta do with ya,” the woman sighed. “Yer in danger wherever you are. I can’t—not yet. Not when my boys need me.”

Of course. The Frenchman knew that the children were the reason they could not be together. He was not suited for fatherhood, not patient and wise. She could not join with him, no matter how strong her heart or her courage. The boys needed someone to care for them. There was no way someone with as large of a heart as his American woman could ever leave them. Perhaps they could have these little crossings, when Grandma was out of her gourd and the children were safe in their dreams. He couldn’t guarantee her or her children’s safety, and she couldn’t leave her nest.

“I cannot be whom you need. I can help, zough,” the Frenchman said. “Name what you need—money, clothes, food—”

The woman shook her head. “We’re okay, fer now. Somethin’ tells me dat you’ll be here the minute I need ya.”

The man nodded. “Mais oui.” He gave the woman a tight squeeze, then jumped. The little fellow in her belly had given him a good kick in the wound. He laughed once, then placed a hand on her stomach. “Somezing tells me you already have a protector, I zink.”

“He’s just the jumpiest little baby. Ain’t never had a kicker like him!” The woman laughed. “Gonna be bruised from the inside out!”

The Frenchman pulled a face. “Perhaps I will have to have a talking to your little boy.”

“Perhaps,” the woman agreed.

The duo held each other for a moment longer. Ticking in the kitchen brought their attention towards the peculiar cat clock. It was past midnight. Certainly too late for young children to be up. Their expecting mothers could use a rest as well. He gave her one last squeeze around the shoulders. “Zank you, ma petite chou fleur.”

“Someday, you’ll have ta tell me what dat means,” the lady smirked. “All I get outta dat is ‘little’ and ‘flower’, and mister, I ain’t either right now.”

The man returned a cheeky grin. “I wasn’t going to say anyzing.” That earned him a flick in his shoulder.

They took a moment to work together, cleaning up the mess that the Frenchman had made. He cleaned the blood from the floor with a washcloth, and she stowed away her medicines and thread for when they would be needed next. When they were finished, both the man and the woman walked to the front door. No cars were outside. Everything was idyllic, just as peaceful as when the intruder had arrived. He would have to walk a block or so in the falling snow to get back to his ride, but that would be much easier, now that he was patched up. A part of him was surprised that the woman didn’t ask him to stay. Perhaps both knew the kids and their nosy grandmother would ask too many questions. He fetched his coat from the rack, then slipped it on. The little woman helped him button it back up, giving him two pats on the chest when she finished.

The man bowed for one moment, then gave her a chaste peck on the cheek. It was hard to do more, at this moment. Dave was watching from the window, and her child was certainly not going to stand for more romance than that. She blushed, almost as embarrassed as the day he’d first flirted with her. “What was dat fer?”

“It is past midnight, non?” the man gave her a fresh smile. “Le jour de la Saint-Valentin.”

She didn’t need a translator for his words. “Think ya stopped by on the wrong night, den. Or, at least ya could have brought roses.”

“No chocolates?” the Frenchman asked.

“Didn’t want ta open myself up fer a joke,” the woman responded. “Good luck gettin’ chocolate, anyway. Rations ‘n all.”

The man nodded. “Suppose so. Zank you, once more.”

The woman smiled, then patted him out the door. She watched him from her tiny home, hand on her belly as he strolled into the soft storm. Her child gave one last bat, confused about where the stranger had gone. The Frenchman stopped for one moment to enjoy the sight. There was his lover, her child, her husband, and her home. It felt wrong to interrupt it, and yet, he wasn’t feeling all that guilty for it.

“You will tell him about his papa, non?” the Frenchman asked.

The little woman nodded. “Of course. Just ‘cause he can’t be dere doesn’t mean he won’t be.”

2 .

Thank you so much for this! I really appreciate the fact that you spent time and effort to write a fic for me, I'm so grateful :D

3 .

I like this.

This is nice.

4 .

Very nice! I don't need to gush about the quality of it, because it's perfect just the way it is.
It's a little refreshing to see that people still write this pair, in the sausage-fest (not that it's bad!) it's nice to see some variety every now and then.

5 .

I really like this. It's just nice. I am really fond of the characterizations and I'd love to see more of this pairing from you.

6 .

I find it sorta funny how little fics there are of the game's probably only canon pairing.
Everything about this is perfect, like dark chocolate. Sweet with a mild bitterness to ground it.
I'm with Amp, I'd love to see more of these two from you as well.
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